Home is the place
by 7.06andcounting
Summary: Side fic to 'Adaptation'. Dom finds out that leaving prison is not the same thing as leaving prison behind. And coming back is not always the same as coming home.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I apologize in advance for the bad language. If you thought Tim had a mouth on him, you ain't heard nothin' yet!**

**Title taken from the line, ****'Home is the place, where when you have to go there, They have to take you in.' From '_The Death of the Hired Man_' by Robert Frost.**

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><p>"Family support can be vital in these cases."<p>

_These cases_? He can go screw himself sideways. I ain't nobody's '_case_'. But I keep my face expressionless, as the head honcho of the parole board bitches on about the fact that no one showed to speak up for me. The bald guy next to him jumps in:

"Mr. Riley's mother and brother are both in full time employment. And his sister is currently on bed rest, due to a difficult pregnancy..."

Holy shit. Little Angel got knocked up? I make myself focus and gradually realize that the dumb bald bastard is making a good point. What he's saying is, that I fuckin' well _do_ have a family, they're just all kind of busy with _real_ life, so they can't be here listening to goddamn do-gooders hash over my _unreal_ one.

"...And, with gainful employment, something that I have arranged and will supervise carefully, Mr. Riley will have every reason to forge a secure position as a useful member of society..."

I have a job on the outside. Apparently. Well, fuck me.

xxXxx

Ain't no more sunlight on this side of the gate than the other. But I blink anyway.

"_Bus stop's over the other side. Watch for traffic now."_ Fucking comedian, the exit guard. Fuckin' thieves too, all of 'em. I got my clothes back, the jacket, jeans and shirt I was wearing when I went in, my wallet too, complete with two bucks and a Trojan. But not the switch or chain I was packing and not my smokes neither. Although I guess ten year old weeds would be kind of stale. I pat my wallet for about the seventh time. It feels weird to have anything in my pockets. To have pockets.

There's a piercing whistle that makes me jump to attention as I cross the road. _What did I do wrong? Where was I supposed to cross?_

And then I see him, standing next to a beaten up Dodge.

"Save you the bus fare?" is Curly's greeting. I go over to the god-awful car. No two panels are quite the same color. He got real tall, I need to tilt my chin slightly, to look him in the eye.

"Hey, Dom," he says, the grin fading into something more nervy looking.

And I want him to be Tim.

I figured, for a long, long time that it would be Tim meeting me out here. Even after he wrote me that he'd been suckered into the fuckin' Army, I figured he'd still be home before me. Then I got a letter from Curly. At that point, he was still ten years old in my mind, still the annoying brat I saw at dinner sometimes. Might as well have been ten, for the spelling and handwriting in the letter, although I guess I ain't got nothing to crow about on that front. But I worked out what he was trying to tell me was, that Tim was out the Army. And that was the last they heard. Curly tried to keep up some kind of letter writing after that, but we ain't exactly ideal penpal material and we never made no arrangements for today.

So I ask him, "How'd ya know to be here?"

"Your PO. He came by. Wanted to know if you could live with Ma."

Oh. Right. Dumb bald guy, arranging my life for me, again. I remember the parole officer, or social worker or whatever, who got assigned me back when I was in the reformatory. I don't think he even knew my name. This one sounds like he's gonna be harder to shake.

"Thing is," Curly's saying, as we climb in what passes for his wheels, "thing is, she didn't think it was...I mean, it's kind of...Thing is, I got me a place, so you can stay with me. Yeah?"

Yeah. I see how the 'thing' is. Ria ain't rolling out any welcome mat. Same old, same old. Only this time it ain't her ma pickin' up the pieces, it's Curly. I tell him thanks, just 'til I get on my feet. He shrugs.

I spend a few minutes getting used to being in a car. I ain't gonna own to feeling sick to my stomach, but I'm glad enough when we hit the highway and Curly can stop throwing the junker around every corner at speed.

After about half an hour, Curly asks if I wanna eat. We're coming up on a diner and he's hungry apparently. I ain't, because it ain't twelve thirty so it ain't lunchtime, but I tell him okay.

The noise of the diner hits my ears as wrong, somehow, but I'm in the booth opposite Curly before I work out why. The mess hall wasn't never quiet, it ain't the noise that's freaking me. It's _different_ voices. It's the _tones_. I can hear the broad behind the counter yelling orders through to the kitchen. I can hear chicks across the room laughing. Kids even.

"_Dom_."

I was twisting around to try and see the girls who are laughing somewhere, when Curly jabbed my arm with the menu. I've slapped it out of his hand before I think. He shoots me a surprised look, pushing it back in front of me.

"You wanna order or not?" The waitress is old and tired looking. I realize they was probably both talking to me. I grab the menu and look hard, like I'm in the habit of choosing my food. Out the corner of my eye I see the woman flick her eyes over me. "How about a cheeseburger, darlin'?" Her voice softens. "Maybe some fries?" I nod and she scratches on her pad. "Coffee?"

"Juice," I blurt. "No, wait. Coke."

She tilts her head and smiles a little, walking away. I resist the feeling that comes over me to rub my prison crew cut and settle for scratching the back of my neck. I wonder how many guys she sees in here, first stop out the Pen, paralyzed by the simple fact of having a choice.

The waitress brings silverware with the food, although Curly ignores it and tears into his burger two handed. I pick up the fork, then the knife, weighing them, working out how much they would be worth on my block. How many weeds, how many favors would I be up, if I passed them on? Even a table knife would be highly prized above a sharpened toothbrush or piece of jagged tile. I resist the urge to put them in my pocket and pick up my glass instead.

The soda is cold, iced - despite the fact that it's winter - and it tastes like my mouth was waiting to be woken up this whole time. Whatever horse piss they served up in the mess hall, it wasn't never the real deal.

Curly pauses between mouthfuls and grins at me as I set down the empty glass and belch.

"Only Coke refreshes." I wink, but he don't get it, just asks me if I wanna buy the world one, or something equally freaky. I wonder if he expects me to pay my way and I'm conscious of the fact that the prices on the menu are double what I expected – this place is charging thirty frigging cents for a cheeseburger.

The smell of the food is getting to me, so I open up the burger and peer between the layers, then reassemble it. It tastes good.

"You used to take the tomato out. When we was kids." Curly watched me inspect the food, but he's missed the point of why. "Gramma never let me, but you always tossed it away."

I shrug. I guess circumstances have made me less of a picky eater. Apart from checking for bits of broken glass, or any other extras, that is.

He sees me watching a family in a booth across from us. The dad is losing his rag with the brats' squabbling and he orders them all out to the car. I stay completely motionless, except for my eyes, which follow him as he goes past. He flinches in surprise and I smile, slowly. He's cussing under his breath as he leaves.

Curly raises his eyebrows. "You know him?"

I nod. I don't explain that the guy, that _family man, _is a guard on the night shift on my block, famous for being quick with his nightstick and his fists. And it makes me surprisingly happy that he can't control his own damn kids.

xxXxx

There's a freaky mesh of known and unknown as we drive into the neighborhood; there are buildings I recognize, but they ain't always next to each other, new stores and apartment blocks have appeared, or there are gaps where others have been torn down.

I wind down the window, catcalling and whistling, as we go past a couple of fine looking chicks.

"What the hell you doin', man?" Curly snaps.

I laugh, high on freedom and the possibilities that stretch in front of me. "Hit the brakes, they was smokin' hot."

"They was carrying school books. You wanna get both of us arrested?"

Shit. They looked...eighteen to me. Maybe seventeen. The kind of girl I would have had no trouble picking up. Before. I wind the window back up and lean back into the seat.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

One time, I remember, Morris's girl complained that a regular customer, over to the grocery store where she worked, was hitting on her. We waited for him in the parking lot and broke his windshield. Told him he was a dirty old man, 'cause she was only sixteen. Like we were. He must have been about thirty. Fuck.

Curly's looking down an intersection, away from me, deciding which way to turn. "Did you wanna go see Ma?"

"Sure." I nod, then catch myself. "Wait. You talkin' about Ria now?" He gulps, embarrassed. For himself or for me I ain't sure. "I know you know," I tell him. "But here's the thing. _Ma_ was my ma, okay? I mean 'Gramma' for you. I ain't never thought of Ria as 'Ma'. Just so you know."

"Okay." He seems to relax a little. Then he flicks his eyes over to me. "So which did you answer yes to? Gramma? You wanna go to the cemetery?"

I suddenly hear her voice. _"Dominic, the Lord sees you in your shame. Coming here with the stink of that place still on you." _She always complained about the smell, when she visited me. Always told me my sins were visible to the big guy in the sky. Which was a crock since I didn't hardly never get under the sky.

"Nah," I say to Curly. "Not today. But...you think Ria would wanna...?" Didn't he tell me she wouldn't have me to live with her? Told the PO what he could do with his plan? Maybe that extends to not wanting to see me at all. I think of a delay. "Maybe I should get cleaned up first?" I'm asking, not for permission exactly, but maybe for approval.

"Yeah. I got some threads you can borrow. Get you movin' on from the 'Rebel Without a Cause' look, huh?"

The fuck? He's wearing jeans and a T shirt, same as me. Okay, his jeans are kind of big on the bottom, where mine are tight, with turn ups, but still.

Curly laughs at my reaction. "Time to drag you into the Seventies, man."

He pulls up outside a ratty looking apartment block and takes me up to the third floor. He's like a frigging real estate agent, showing me how to work the water heater and explaining that the one faucet sticks unless you turn it just so. I realize that he's nervous.

"I appreciate this, man. You know that, right? You didn't haveta to put me up." I hope I sound as sincere as I am.

He looks surprised. "Yeah, I did. Ain't nothin' more important than family."

Both of us pause, as that phrase echoes between us. I'd lay money we're thinking about the same person, but right then there's a knock on the door.

Dumb bald guy comes in, unannounced and uninvited, looking disappointed that he don't find us shooting up or having an orgy or something.

"I wanted to see you settled in, Dominic," he says, like he's my den mother, "and to check I had all the details right for Jerome's address."

I stare in surprise as Curly nods.

"I go by 'Jerry'," he grunts. "For work an' stuff."

"Just the two of you living here?" Baldy consults his file. "Because my colleague down at the office mentioned you have another brother...Timothy? Where does he live?"

"California." Curly answers before I can say anything. He sounds so sure.

Baldy looks around the apartment and makes an appointment for me to visit him on Monday. I wonder how he'd react if I sniffed my way around his office, like he just did to us. I close the door on him and ask Curly if that's where Tim is, for real?

He shrugs. "That's where the last post card come from."

"Saying what?"

"Sayin' not to expect him home any time soon."

"Anytime soon? When the fuck was that?"

He tells me. Four years. Longer than he was gone in the Army. And at least we knew where he was then, even if it was the fucking jungle.

"Listen," Curly drops into the one armchair as he speaks, his tone flat. "I made my peace with the fact that he ain't coming back. You'd best do the same."

"I need a drink." The words spill out of me and Curly twitches.

"Don't tell me that. You can _want_ a drink all you like, but _needing_ it is a whole other crap game."

_What?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is short, but I figured short is better than nothing.**

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><p>Ria's pad is one place that ain't changed. I could walk up to the door and not be surprised to see Tim come barreling out, ready to hunt up a little action – most likely with Ria screaming in the background that I wasn't to get him into any fucking trouble, if I valued my skin. I wish.<p>

Curly walks right in and I follow, 'cause what else am I going to do?

After the deal with the chicks I yelled at, making me think about our ages, I ain't sure what I'm gonna see, what changes to expect. I know how old Ria is, but I lost perspective somewhere, I guess, because she looks older than forty five to me. Hell, if she ain't starting to look like Ma, peroxide or no peroxide. But that ain't even the real shocker.

If it was freaky to see Curly all grown up, that ain't nothing compared to seeing Angela. She was, like him, frozen as this little ten year old kid in my mind.

Mostly what I remember is Ma telling me, or Tim, or Curly or any combination of us, not to cuss in front of Angela, not to fart in front of her, not to do anything in front of her that might spoil her precious angel self.

Angela stands there, half a scowl on her face, staring me out. If she was a random chick giving me that look I'd write her off as a bitch, sure enough. But suddenly she smiles. And she's beautiful, my little sister.

"I'd forgotten how much you look like Tim." She hugs me, hardly reaching my chest.

You know how you don't haveta think about going down stairs? And if you do try to think it through it gets weird, your movements go all wrong? Like that, just for a second, I forget how to hug someone. I have to remind my arms what to do. It's been a while.

"Welcome home," says Angel and then she's stepping back and wiping her eyes and cussing herself for being a candy-ass. Then her hand clamps across her mouth and she shoots out the room.

Curly rolls his eyes. "She still puking?" he asks Ria, who nods.

"I was the same –" she breaks off, obviously realizing that memories of her own pregnancies ain't exactly tactful, with me stood in front of her.

"You hear from Johnjo and Pat?" I ask her, I ain't real sure why. I hardly knew them, my 'brothers'. They're older than Ria and had left home by the time I was a toddler. The 'in and out of jail' kind of leaving home. Johnjo was around for a while when I was about ten. Ma never talked about them much. It was Danny, who went down in Korea, was her golden boy. Ghosts don't never need parole.

Ria pulls a face. "Got a Christmas card from Johnjo's wife. They're livin' up north. I got the address somewhere. Ain't heard from Pat in a while." She looks like she'd be happy to add me to that list of long lost relatives.

"Uncle Pat the one who married a Cherokee girl?" Curly pipes up.

Ria gives him a tight lipped nod that holds a world of meaning, mostly '_we don't talk about that_.' She fixes me with a look that's so like Ma it's scary. "Curly's doing good. He's got a steady job, now, he don't need no one draggin' him down..."

"I ain't intending on –"

"I mean it, Dom. I ain't happy about you staying at his place, he needs to keep his head straight."

"I'm right here, Ma," says Curly, "an' I told you, everything's cool."

I swallow hard. "I got a job, too. Gotta see the PO, Monday –"

She sniffs. "A weekend's plenty long enough for you to raise hell, an' you know it."

"Fuckin' hell, Ria. Whaddya want from me? _Ten years_ I was in that fucking place, you can't just say 'welcome home'?" I spin around, head for the entryway. Realize that it's the first time I walked out of a place by my own choosing in all those ten fucking years I just mentioned, and I get stuck, frozen by that thought, at the front door.

I'm breathing too hard. I can feel my heart racing but I can't do nothing but stare at the fucking door handle.

"Dom?" I force myself to look at Angela when she speaks to me. She smiles. "Can you an' Curly give me a ride home?" She has to slide past me, to reach the door and open it and once it's open I have no problem walking through, out onto the porch.

It's Curly's car, Curly's the one doing the driving. I wonder why she said it that way? _Can you and Curly _give me a ride home... It ain't like we come as a package. A team. I'mma crash at his for a little while, is all.

"I was there, when Tim found out, about you, y'know." Angela's voice is quiet from the back seat. I don't look around. "He was mad as hell. He said –"

"Angel!" Curly slams his fist into the dashboard.

She lets fly at him. "Why should I shut up about him? It's like you wanna pretend he never existed! He ain't dead, Curly, you get that?" She kicks the back of his seat in frustration and he squawks and the car swerves some. "He ain't dead!" Angela repeats, a note of desperation in her voice. "Jesus Christ, you're as bad as Ma, y'know that? She won't talk about Dom, you won't talk about Tim – "

Curly wrenches the wheel over and the car scrapes the curb, slamming to a stop. He twists around in his seat. "You wanna talk about Tim? _Talk_. Go on. Fuckin' talk! Only you ain't got nothin' new to say, have ya? Anything you gotta say'll be years out of date, won't it?" She tries to get a word in, but he carries right on, "I know what you wanna say, Angel. You wanna go on about how great he was, how he looked out for us, how fucking superhuman he was? Well, tell me this, if he was so fucking great, _where is he now_?"

I wait for her to burst into tears. She don't. The scowl comes back and she flips him the bird. I guess she ain't got no comeback to the truth.

I want to wind the clock back, to when none of 'em knew what I knew. When I could hang out at my _sister_'s house without it being weird. When Tim was here, looking out for them and I only had myself to look out for.

If I was still nineteen and they was still kids, what would I do, apart from tell 'em to shut the hell up? I know, in my heart, that I woulda used Tim as a buffer, woulda told him to get them in line.

I look at Curly and then I look at Angela. How the fuck can they be older than I feel? How do I make it all fit?

"Tell ya one thing Tim wasn't no good at." My comment drops into the space between their glaring match and they turn to me in shock. "He was a crappy driving instructor, 'cause you can't drive for shit, Curly Shepard."

Angel snorts and Curly starts to protest. Then they laugh out loud.

"I was barely legal to drive, when he went away..." Curly begins again and Angel hoots with laughter and slaps him on the shoulder.

"See if you can get me home in one piece, huh?"

An' they're both smiling as we pull away and I feel like I did okay. I ain't sure what I did, but it feels like something.

It ain't the same place as I had. But it feels like it might be _a_ place.


	3. Chapter 3

So we drop Angel at the shitty apartment she calls home. Her husband greets her with a sappy smile that somehow convinces me he's on the level, he ain't gonna do the wrong thing by her. Too loved up. Too stupid. He confirms my opinion by grinning, when we're introduced, and blurting out:

"Right. You're the uncle who's a brother or somethin', yeah?"

"Something, yeah," I agree, as Curly rolls his eyes at Angela and she pulls a face back.

In the car, I ask Curly – in light of what he told me earlier – if he will lend me the price of a bottle of booze. I really want a drink. Curly says I don't gotta be worried about drinking in front of him. He's cool with that. He even goes out still.

"I'm an alcoholic, man, I ain't like a priest, or nothin'." In fact, he offers for us to party right away. "I know this bar where lots of chicks go. You wanna get laid? That's the place."

Do I wanna get laid? Holy Mary, Mother of God, do I wanna get laid...

But I feel kind of spacey, to be honest. Kind of like the world is bigger than I remember. I could do with some walls around me. I tell him I wanna take it slow. Get some sleep, maybe. Hit the town when I'm back on form.

Not only does he agree, he knows where we can get some cheap booze and he swings around past the stock yards, pulling up outside a dive that can't make up its mind if it's a bar or a bunkhouse, to judge from the assortment of trucks and trailers parked up.

While I wait for Curly, I spot a kid minding a carton of puppies, scrawny little things, half black and brown in patches, with paws too big and pink tongues lolling sideways. I get out the car.

"Five bucks, mister?" says the kid, kind of hopeful. "They're real good 'uns."

I pick one up. It wriggles in my hands, trying to lick my face. It's warm. Soft.

"We could get one," I say to Curly, as he reappears. "Couldn't we?"

"Nah, man. We live on the third floor, remember?"

I put the puppy back in the box. My hands feel cold without it.

"Three bucks?...Two? My pop says they're goin' in the river if'n I don't find homes." The kid's eyes are filling up. I shrug and tell him sorry.

We pick up take out – Chinese, Curly's choice – and we head back to the apartment. It tastes even better than the burger at lunchtime. Maybe all food is gonna taste good to me, the rest of my life. I wash it down with the whiskey he got me, leaning back on the couch.

"This guy I knew in County, he reckoned there was a still, down there in Big Mac. That true?" asks Curly, around a mouthful of noodles.

I snort. "Yeah, an' a freakin' cocktail lounge an' all." I grin when he looks disappointed and I go on, "I never saw a still, but there's plenty of stuff washing around. Smuggled in, if you got the dough for a guard on the take, or you can take your chance on going blind on someone's pruno."

"What they make it out of?"

"How the fuck do I know? I only tasted it once. Coulda been made of piss and Draino." I wash the memory down and away.

"Ha. Orange juice and apple cores, this guy tried in County. Never worked, 'cause the baggie exploded. And they tossed the cells regular after that." Curly grabs the last of the chicken and I let him, 'cause my stomach is feeling kind of rocky.

What I heard about County is, it's fucking Disneyland compared to McAlester, but I don't say that to Curly. I think about why it wasn't worth it to me, to get hold of any hooch, dope, whatever. How easy it is to score, if you're willing to pay. One way or another. Mostly the other. It was more than the method of payment held me back though. I ain't never liked the feeling of being out of control, and in there it's downright dangerous not to have your wits about you.

I look at the bottle in my hand and realize it's kind of late to be worried about that now, tonight. I hear myself laugh again.

"Where'd Angel pick that douche up, anyways?" I ask.

"Ain't he, though?" Curly nods. "She had him whipped the first day they met. 'Bout the only good thing is, he got a job over at the refinery. Makes okay money."

"Which _she_ spends."

"Yup. She's pushing for them to move house. _For the baby_." He loads the last with a sappy tone and rolls his eyes.

I focus in on that. "He's okay, though, for real? They wanted a kid?" I don't know why it feels important, but it's a relief when he nods again.

"Might be a first, in our family, huh? A planned pregnancy." He chews his lip, watching for my reaction. I close my eyes briefly, leaning back on the couch, make a snarky comment about Ma rolling in her grave, contraception being a sure fire ticket to Hell, according to her.

Now that the subject is out again, Curly asks me, almost shyly, "Did you always know? About Gramma not being your mom?"

I shake my head. That's a mistake. "Nah, 's'secret." I realize I'm slurring. "I mean, it _was_ a dirty little secret. _I _was a dirty little secret. She never knew that I knew." He nods, like he has any possibility of understanding. I swallow hard. "But, did Ria never talk to you about me, at all? Even after y'all knew?" I know, even as I'm asking, that there is no good answer to this. But somehow I can't stop myself.

Curly squirms."Not really..."

"Whassat mean?"

He swallows. "Did you know Angel was married before? When she was still in school?" I'm confused by this change in subject, but he goes on to say: "She thought she was knocked up, is why. And Ma said some stuff then, about how it was for her and how the guy ran out on her. I guess that's why Gramma took you, 'cause Ma couldn't get married, when he shot through."

Shit. '_The_ guy ran out on her'? As in, '_a_ guy'? Some random guy? I kind of always assumed...

I blurt out: "She say it wasn't Jimmy Shepard, then? Wasn't your dad?"

For some reason that makes Curly cough out a short laugh. His tone is bitter when he says, "You mean _Tim an' Angel's_ dad."

"The fuck?" I stare at him, trying to clear the fuzzy from my brain.

"Well, you'd need a private eye and a tracker dog to find him and ask, but he always said I wasn't his." He chews his lip some. "I'd hear 'em, fighting, late nights, back when we was kids, those times he was around. He always claimed he was in County when she got knocked up with me."

"_Bullshit_." I make him jump. I gesture to the both of us, to our faces. "You an' me and Tim. Anyone'd pick us out in a line up as brothers. _Full _brothers. 'Sides, I heard Ma say a lot of stuff about Ria, but she never said that."

"Oh, she had guys, when Dad was away. I remember that much."

"Yeah, but not..." I lose the thread of what I was going to say. The room's spinning a little.

"I hated Jimmy. He was a prize asshole." Curly looks like he's daring me to contradict him. He won't get no argument from me.

See, I think Jimmy _was_ my dad. And an asshole. Always did. When I was growing up and we crossed paths, he always had an extra snarl for me. A sly remark or a nasty look. Like he hated me for just existing. Why was he that bothered, if I was nothing to him? I figure wherever he shot through to didn't work out and he slunk back to Tulsa and picked up with Ria again, still not knowing how to keep it covered, since he knocked her up with Tim. Only he didn't get away that time. I guess maybe I was too old to leave Ma by then. Or they just didn't want me. That pretty much chimes with how he acted. Her too, I guess.

In fact, I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't to piss them off, a little, that I started hanging out with Tim in the first place. Soon discovered Tim was smart, though. And we got on real well. And growing up in that house with just Ma and the Virgin Mary, judging me from the couch and the mantle, I liked the idea of having a kid brother to hang with, long before I worked out that I had one for real. Two, even.

"I love you, man," I tell Curly and I mean it. I do. I throw an arm around his shoulders, to reinforce my point. "An' I 'ppreciate stayin' here. I mean, I know I ain't Tim –"

"Nobody ain't Tim," he says, kind of sad. "I bet you wish I was Tim instead of me, huh?"

That's a tough one, because - honest? – I kind of do. But I'm saved from having to explain that by the fact that I hurl, the whiskey and the sweet and sour chicken reappearing at a speed that takes me by surprise and hits Curly's shirt with some force.

Curly has a limited but explosive reaction, mostly centered on the word 'fuck', as he shoves backwards and leaps away from me. Without him to lean on, I slip sideways which makes me retch again. His vocabulary shifts to the kind of blasphemy that would have Ma reaching for her wooden spoon – I wonder, vaguely, if she kept a special one, for slapping us with, or if it was the one she used for baking. I never noticed at the time.

"_Christ_. Here, here, wait a sec...don't..." Curly rams a waste basket under my nose as I heave again. He's bare chested, so he must have lost the shirt somewhen I wasn't looking. "Christ, Dom," he repeats, but the fire's gone out of it. "You alright, man?" he lifts my head to get a look at me. I can't quite come up with the words to answer. Curly tries to sniff his own chest, see if the puke's got on him. "Christ, that whiskey was starting to look good, bro, so I guess I oughta thank you for the reminder that it ain't a good idea. Maybe I could hire you out, at meetings."

And, although it sends my head spinning again, I laugh with him.

xxXxx

So, in ten years they didn't move the parole office and they didn't decorate neither. I recognize the hole in the wall where some blond kid kicked off while I was waiting my turn, back in the day. When I was running the Yard Boys. He wasn't one of mine. He was escorted from the building by Tulsa's finest, if I remember rightly, after he messed up the waiting area and put his fist through the Sheetrock. Yeah, and the PO was so shook up he never asked me half of what he usually did, which was just as well 'cause I'd been up all night with some chick who banged like a screen door in a tornado, so I wasn't up to answering much.

Baldy though, he's all about the askin'. And the tellin'.

"I'm not so foolish as to think that you won't partake of alcohol, Dominic. And in moderation, I can accept that. But I will not tolerate any usage of illegal narcotics. Is that clear?"

Maybe not as much as he might think, but I work out he's saying '_booze, yes, drugs, no'_ so I nod along.

"I realize there will be a world of temptation in front of you..."

I wonder if he thinks there ain't temptation inside, then. If these guys in their offices got any idea of what it's like, for real, to be in there. Or out here again, for that matter.

Don't make no difference, Friday night was a one-off. I won't be puking on Curly any time again soon and I won't be sliding no wages into any River Kings' pockets neither, assuming that the Kings are still the main dealers around.

Baldy's still yakking, about whatever construction site he's got me working on. Well, he ain't gonna make me no brain surgeon is he?

"...I find keeping my charges out of night clubs is the most useful approach." He says '_night clubs'_ like Ma used to say '_fiery pits of Hell'_. Wait? Keep me away from night clubs _how_? I pay attention as he tells me he got me a night job. On purpose.

"What, one of them road crews that works overnight?" I ask.

"No, no. I explained already. A kitchen job, in an all night diner. The proprietor has helped me out before, realigning offenders with the outside world –"

"Kitchen?"

"Yes-"

"I don't know nothing about kitchen work."

"You'll learn. Anyone can wash dishes, Dominic. It's much more important to learn to get along with folk again, to get into the routine of steady employment..."

Yeah? You wanna try sharing a cell with a frustrated prison wolf for a couple of years and then tell me about 'ways to get along with folk'. I tune out the rest.

xxXxx

Curly offered again to drive me, over the weekend, but I said no. Told him I wasn't interested, but now I find myself walking here, since he's at work and I got no one to please but myself, as I drift home from the parole office.

If I'm honest, it might be more about the fact that I ain't sure how I'mma react, so I wanna be by myself.

I end up wandering about, because it's way bigger than I thought it would be and I don't have a clue where to find her.

There's no one else around apart from a blond guy sitting on a bench, elbows on knees, head down. Only I guess he looks up, as I walk past, because he says, "_Tim_?" and when I turn around, he's up on his feet, shoving his hair back as he squints at me. I shake my head, but he's already realized his mistake.

"Sorry." He holds up a hand in apology, smiling, although he still looks confused. "I thought you were someone else."

"Tim Shepard?"

He nods, relieved that I ain't pissed, I guess. "Yeah. Why, you get that a lot?"

"Not so much, but I been away."

His eyes flick to my hair. "Yeah, so's he. 'S'why I was surprised to see you. I mean, him. I mean -"

"I get it." I say, to shut him up, more than anything. He shoots me a wide grin that must get chicks panting. I ask how he knows Tim.

"Hard to find many people my age who _don't_ know him. Like, school an' rumbles an' –"

"You in his gang?"

"Nah. But we was on the same side. Mostly." He winks. Then sticks his hand out. "Soda Curtis. So, that how _you_ know Tim? The gang?"

I shake his hand and then watch his face as I tell him, "I'm Dom Riley, Tim's brother."

"Huh?" He blinks.

"You heard."

"Wait...didn't you run the gang before Tim? I didn't know you were his brother." For some reason he's smiling at the news.

I shrug, letting the statement stand. I light a cigarette and look around. "How the hell are you supposed to find anyone's headstone in this place?"

Curtis's eyes go left, to the row nearest to where he was sitting. "Oh. I guess mostly you just know from the burial."

"Yeah. I missed that. Like I said, I was away. I'm looking for my Ma."

"I think there's a map, in the office. But..." He looks kind of embarrassed. "Uh, I've seen your...Angela here. Over there." He points to a row of trees. "If that's any help?"

I shrug. "Worth a try. Thanks. I'm sorry to interrupt."

He loses the smile that seems like his normal expression. "I was just talking to my mom about something." His eyes go left again. "Trying to work out what she'd say to make me feel better, y'know?"

Not really, so I stay quiet.

He was right and Angel must visit Ma, because I find the stone. In fact it's next to the one for the man who was my grandfather, but who I would have called 'Dad', if he'd been alive. I look at their names. At the lists of 'beloved this and that'. I get the last few drags out of my weed, thinking about what the hell that all means.

"Ma?" I try, since it seems talking works for that Curtis guy. "I'm back." I feel stupid. Self conscious. But, faced with the cold stone, for once I don't hear her voice in my head. That's okay. It's all good. I wasn't expecting no great revelation. Maybe it's what I needed, to get me on my own track. No one to answer to, I can dig that. It's time an' then some, for me to be getting it right, on my own.

I take a detour, once I start walking back, and I go down past the stock yards. Only the kid with the puppies ain't there no more.


End file.
